Bloodshed and Secrets
by Sound Color
Summary: Toron Leohiston has been distant from his Sindarin brethren since he sided with the Feanorians in the First Age. That changes when he finds a bloodied elf maiden near a group of human corpses. All Original Characters. Follows after "When the Waves Recede." Third Age, but draws strongly upon elf lore from the Silmarillion, Unfinished Tales, Morgoth's Ring, etc.
1. Ch 1: Dead in the Clearing

**Helpful Context Notes: **this story is set early in the Third Age of Middle Earth, around 900. At this time, the northern human kingdom of Arnor has broken into Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur, and kings still reign in Gondor in the south. Elrond's wife Celebrian is still alive and well at Imladris, the Istari (wizards) have not yet come to Middle Earth, and hobbits have not yet ventured into Eriador.

* * *

He only stopped because of the screams.

"Slow, Lomecano." The grey horse pulled up from its gallop. The world came into sharp focus around Toron Leohiston. Trees clustered together in thick clumps, their leaves filtering the sun into green shades. Underneath, the horse's footfalls were softened by layers of underbrush and ferns.

Chetwood, just to the east of the village of Archet. Near Bree. The elf man glanced around, trying to locate the source of the screaming. But now, the forest was silent, except for the sound of wind and the farther off noise of the villagers.

Toron dismounted and crept through the trees, motioning for his horse to remain still. Ahead was a clearing. As he drew closer, he saw the remains of a crude camp strewn about the grass. A few abandoned packs, the embers of a fire pit still drifting smoke, an abandoned animal carcass.

And the corpses of three men and two women. He walked closer to their prone forms. Fresh kills, by the smell of blood. He took a second whiff of the air. Another scent lingered as well, something strange and sickly.

A shape flickered in the corner of his vision. Toron whirled around, dark cloak flung back and sword in his hand. A tall figure staggered out of the clearing, shrouded in a dark brown cloak. The killer? From the way it favored its right side, he doubted it was unscathed from the fight.

The elf man stalked noiselessly across the clearing. Suddenly, the shrouded figure turned around, peering out through the deep cowl concealing its face. Toron froze, wishing he were closer to the forest. Not a mortal then. None but an elf could have heard him. The figure stared at him for a moment, then took a step forward.

The step turned into a stumble, then the strange elf twisted sharply on one foot and fell to the ground.

Toron paused, waiting lest the figure rose once more. After a few moments, he jogged over to where the body lay. Kneeling, he carefully drew back the heavy hood. Within its shadowy depths was an elf maiden, her fair face bleached with pain, and her brown hair matted with dried blood. Toron frowned. He couldn't tell if it was her own blood, or that of the dead humans in the clearing.

He unclasped her cloak, revealing a rough green tunic, trousers, cracked boots. Peasant's clothes. But the long dagger she clutched in her left hand was definitely of fine elvish make, as was the rapier that hung by a simple hip belt. Finer make than his own weapons, truth be told. In her other hand was a plain leather pouch, held close with equal fierceness. Toron pried it out of her grip, and opened the latch. Strange, cloying odors assaulted his nose, emanating from a variety of tiny leather pouches, flasks, and a few glass bottles. His frown deepened and he snapped the pouch shut.

"Who are you?" he whispered, pressing a hand to her cool forehead.

A faint moan trickled through her pale lips and her free hand reached down to grasp her left side. More blood stained her tunic beneath—and the dark stain was spreading rapidly. The elf man felt his stomach clench, and knew his course. For any elf, he would find aid, but for this maiden, he felt an odd, deeper conviction that she could not, she _must_ not die!

Toron gave a sharp, commanding whistle to Lomecano, then threw the pouch over his shoulder, and gently lifted the maiden into his arms. Another soft sound of pain escaped her lips and his heart raced. There wasn't much time. Turning, he placed her on the horse's back, then leaped on behind her, hold her close with one arm, and placing his other hand on the horse. Lomecano would sense his urgency. There was only one place close enough to heal the strange elf's injuries.

"To Imladris!"


	2. Ch 2: Wariness and Waterfalls

_Waterfalls._

It was the first thing Allinde heard. The distant, resonant roar that held musical undertones. Relief flowed through her mind. She knew the sound well—it meant peace, and safety. But where was she?

The answer drifted through her consciousness. _Imladris._

Slowly she opened her eyes, wincing at bright sunbeams that invaded from a row of gracefully arched windows. Her eyes instantly adapted to the lighting. She was lying on a bed in a small, airy room. The only other furnishings were a polished wooden chifferobe and a small table with a single chair. On the table were white cloth bandages, bowls of fragrant water, and a variety of herbs. She took a deep breath. They were healing herbs. _Who was injured? _For the first time, Allinde noticed a throbbing in her side. Reaching down, she felt more of the cloth bandages through the white linen shift, gasping in pain as she touched the hurt area.

Memories flooded her mind. The raiding party, plotting an attack on Archet, a small village that was too small to afford any protection. _Fool!_ She thought._ Five against one, and you were already weakened._ Still, she had killed three of the five marauders before they had discovered her tricks. _Although in the end, I'm alive, and they're not. _ Allinde smiled sourly. _But how? _The last she recalled was searching the forest floor for healing herbs to staunch the bleeding in her side

"Aiya, you are awake! I'm glad." Sindarin-how odd to hear it spoken by a fair voice! Allinde looked up to see an elf woman standing in the doorway. Her ebony hair was braided away from her narrow face, and she was dressed in a dark blue cotehardie with a pale blue smock over it, bound with black ties at the throat and waist. A healer.

"Excuse my manners," she continued, stepping into the room and walking immediately to the table. "My name is Narondiel. I have been overseeing your recovery."

A brief silence passed. Though the healer didn't look up, Allinde knew she was expected to introduce herself. She closed her eyes for a moment. What name could she give? Returning to the Eldar had never been part of the plan. But neither was getting badly injured. Now, it was too late for secrecy.

"Palannur," Allinde said. Her after-name, little used when she last dwelt among her people. "How long have I been here?"

"Four days and three nights," Narondiel answered, gently stirring the bowl of water, now speckled with herbs. At the other's quizzical glance, she continued. "It was not only by sword wounds that you suffered; I judged that you had not eaten for three days."

_An inn_, Allinde remembered. _I was going to the inn at Bree when I first saw the raiding party._

"You were brought here by a traveler, Leohiston, who found you in the forest."

Narondiel moved away from the table and toward the bed, pulling out a small, thin knife from a sheath at her waist. Allinde watched her warily.

"I need to remove the bandages so I may examine and bathe the wounds," the healer said with a reassuring smile.

She did so with the utmost care, though Allinde still had to grit her teeth to avoid crying out. After disposing of the soiled cloths, Narondiel gently wiped the wounds with the soothing water, and wrapped them again. She hummed while she worked, a lovely melody that sounded strange and soothing to Allinde's ears.

"They have healed well." Narondiel's eyes, already bright, glowed with satisfaction. _She is Noldor_. The High elves from Aman were known for the light of their spirits. Allinde should have seen it from the start. Another effect of her long exile. "If you wish, you may wash and change into some more comfortable clothes." The healer gestured to the chifferobe.

Allinde eyed the wooden cabinet with some aversion. "What of the clothes I was wearing before?"

"They were too badly damaged," Narondiel said. "By the time you arrived, we had to cut them off your body in order to heal you." She paused, glancing at Allinde thoughtfully. "Palannur. The name sounds familiar. Ah yes! I remember hearing of a maiden by that name. Of the House of Cirdan. But she was reported dead."

Allinde's heart sank. It had been a necessary lie at the time. But what good did it do, in the end? She still needed the help of her kindred to survive. She sighed softly, as she felt her last vestige of privacy vanish. She had no clothes to disguise herself, no way of fleeing.

"What you heard was an…unfortunate rumor." Allinde gave a faint, pained smile. "Thanks to your aid, I am alive and well."

Narondiel smiled. "You are welcome. And now, I have other matters that need my attention."

She turned to leave, sheathing the knife once more. The simple act seemed familiar. Something about the leather strap, holding something particular. Special. _My satchel! _Panic shot through her. Allinde sat up in bed, grimacing as pain arced from her wound.

"Narondiel, wait!" The healer stopped in the doorway and turned, her eyebrows raised. Allinde took a deep breath, trying to steady her heartbeat. It would not do in this place. Such alarm wasn't elvish. "I had a pouch—a pouch and some weapons." She added the last phrase casually, trying to disguise her desperation. "Where are they?"

The healer blinked, then shook her head. "I'm sorry. I haven't seen them. Nothing was carried in with you." Her brow wrinkled. "You might speak with Leohiston. As I mentioned, he was the one who brought you here."

With an obliging nod, she turned once more and left. Allinde was tempted to call after her, to ask more questions. Yet that would only draw more attention to the pouch, and that was the last thing she needed.

No, she would have to seek this Leohiston herself.

* * *

**Helpful Context Notes:** all elves have an inner light produced by their spirit, but the Noldor have a brighter light due to having spent time in Aman with the Valar (think angels or demigods).

Allinde is a personal name and is pronounced /ah-LEEN-day/. Palannur is Allinde's after-name and is pronounced /PA-lah-nur/.

Leohiston is pronounced /lay-oh-HI-ston/ and is Toron's after-name. An after-name is one of an elf's common names that would be used by anyone, as opposed to the personal first name.


	3. Ch 3: Dance of Words

He should have left by now.

Toron stood in a small alcove nestled beside one of the great waterfalls. The alcove held only faint shadow, given it was nearly midday, but he had long mastered the art of fading from sight when the situation called for it. Including any time he entered an elvish realm.

His eyes narrowed as the reason for his current visit descended the path to the waterfall. She was clad in a dark red kirtle and cloak of plain material, the hood concealing her face. Still, the being walked favoring her left side, just as the stranger from the clearing.

The elf maiden stopped right in front of his alcove, and a sigh escaped her cloaked form. Her trembling hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. At last, she drew back her hood, revealing a pale, pensive face that was focused on her own thoughts.

Toron took the opportunity to study her more closely. Her wide eyes were a murky mixture of colors, their hue difficult to identify, and not particularly pleasant to look upon. Her features were strong and sharp, with faint lines that marked scars on her temples and narrow jaw. Her hair, a rich brown, fell only to her shoulders. Certainly an Avari then. There was nothing exceptional to mark the elf maiden as one of the Eldar.

Yet he could not look away.

Four days late. His companion in Arthedain would not be pleased with the delay. But Toron could not bring himself to leave the maiden, even though the healer Narondiel was more than capable, and his own bloody past left him of little help in caring for the wounded.

He could go now. She was clearly mending well.

Instead, Toron stepped out of the shadows to stand next to her.

"Good day."

* * *

Allinde started and turned sharply. She looked up into grey eyes that glinted with amusement. An elf man stood beside her, dressed in the camouflaging tunic and cloak of a traveler. Sindarin. The elf maiden bit back the coarse word that lay on the tip of her tongue. She hated being surprised, especially by a stranger.

"And to you as well," she said after a prolonged pause.

She frowned and looked back at the waterfall. She had been searching all morning, and had still not located Leohiston. Most of the elves she had asked had no idea who he was, and those that did seemed ambivalent that he could be in their haven.

All of those brief conversations. Every moment, trying not to show any sign of familiarity. It had taken all of her knowledge and focus to hide her spirit. To smile at a servant or scout she knew, and hope they didn't recognize her.

Allinde wasn't ready for a reunion right now. She might never be.

The elf man was still standing next to her. She could feel him watching her out of the corner of his eye. It was starting to bother her. She was tempted to pull her hood back over her face, though that wouldn't be fair, since he was the one who intruded on her privacy.

"Pardon me," she said. "Do I know you?"

"I don't think so. But you should." She raised an eyebrow, arms folded across her chest. Still staring at the falling water. He continued, his deep voice tinged with amusement, "Considering I found you and brought you here."

All traces of irritation vanished, replaced by heartfelt relief. Allinde turned to face the stranger, focusing on him more closely. Angular features, short black hair that lay in tousled waves around his ears and over his forehead, and a wide mouth with a mocking twitch.

"You're Leohiston!" she said. Words spilled out of her; this was no time for subtlety. "When you found me, there was a pouch I held in my hands, a leather pouch with certain...materials inside. Where is it? Do you still have it?"

"Such gratitude," the elf man said wryly. "Without even a name."

Allinde fought to control her rising emotions. If she could only lay hold the pouch, and her weapons, she might still have a chance to leave. It was a mad chance, with the wound at her side still painful, but it wasn't the first foolish action she had taken.

"Palannur," she said quickly, forcing a polite smile. "I am thankful. May Elbereth bless your paths. Now, there were also two weapons, a rapier and a long knife –"

"There were far more than two," Leohiston said, smirking. "As for their location, they were taken to Lord Elrond, at his request. He also stopped by briefly to observe your healing. He seemed intrigued by you."

Allinde felt the brief hope of escape fade as quickly as it had come. Indeed, Lord Elrond would know her. No manner of disguise could fool the powerful elf lord, particularly when so few elf children were born in the Third Age. No doubt he, like Narondiel, would find it curious that she still lived, despite rumors to the contrary, and unlike the Noldorin healer, Lord Elrond would want some explanation.

_And then, so will my uncle_. The house of Cirdan was scarce enough and most of her kinsmen had left for Aman soon after the Battle of the Last Alliance. Lord Cirdan would certainly have many questions to ask about her time away.

"I see," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. "Thank you for your trouble, Leohiston."

Allinde turned away from him, and sought solace once more in watching the waves pour over the rocky outcrops. A whole morning of hiding her true self and in the end she must remain at Imladris. She must return to her kindred.

"I knew it wouldn't last," she muttered in a mixture of Westron and Entish. Since a child, she had mixed languages in order to speak her thoughts aloud, while hiding them from others.

"How long have you been away?" he asked, speaking in the same manner.

Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't turn towards Leohiston. It was impressive that he could understand; few elves spoke either of those languages. It was also irritating. _Try to translate this._

"Over three hundred years," she replied in Orkish.

* * *

Toron blinked as the foul words filled the air. Few elves knew the language of orcs, fewer would admit to it, and he had known none who would speak it within an elvish realm. _Excepting myself._

"Such a foul tongue this is." It was his turn to test her. The elf man continued in Khuzdul, "Where did you learn it?"

"Was that dwarvish?" Palannur's words were once more in Sindarin and she pivoted to face him. It was though a veil had dropped away from her face, revealing the true light of spirit. Her murky eyes clarified into a gleaming brown, flecked with green, rimmed with dark grey. While her features didn't soften, they seemed to coalesce into a comely harmony. Not Avari. There even was a suggestion of the proud Noldor in her countenance. How could he have missed it?

Why would she choose to conceal such heritage?

"Yes," he said quietly. "And you spoke in orkish. Unusual for an elf."

"As is dwarvish," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "But I've found it is useful to know the language of my enemies."

Ignoring his question. Toron studied her thoughtfully. "Do you consider the dwarves equal to orcs?"

She shook her head emphatically. "Not at all! But I know that the dwarves do not teach their language to outsiders."

"Neither do orcs."

They stared at each other. For the first time, he could see the age in her eyes. Palannur was named truly. There were many secrets inside her.

"My father taught me," she said abruptly. "Before he was killed."

Sadness twisted her expression, and though the elf maiden composed herself quickly, grief lingered in her eyes. Another thing they had in common.

* * *

"I am sorry," Leohiston said, almost inaudibly. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, pain etched across his face as he was lost in some distant memory. "I learned Khuzdul within Gabilgathol," He opened his eyes. "Also known as Belegost."

"In the First Age," Allinde said. Understanding grew within her. "Lost after the War of Wrath."

He nodded. "And then, I learned more within the city of Khazad-dum, before Sauron the second deceiver betrayed my people."

_Is he speaking of elves, or dwarves_? The sorrow in Leohiston's eyes was far more personal than mere acquaintance warranted. Yet there were not many elves that befriended dwarves. As Allinde watched, the elf man's expression returned to calm interest. "It seems as though you have tried to acquire it."

Allinde smiled ruefully. "Not by their wishes," she admitted. "I managed to glean a few words while listening to a group of dwarves at an inn."

She began softly singing the lyrics. After a few words, Leohiston interrupted her with a chuckle.

"A drinking song," he said. "A very creative one."

Allinde felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "Perhaps my pronunciation was—"

The elf man silenced her with a finger on her lips. "It was flawless," he said gently. Then in Telerin, "But I'm not used to hearing those kinds of words sung by such a fair voice." He removed his hand and studied her intently. "I'm glad to meet another master of languages, and I would teach you Khuzdul. However, I must leave for Arthedain. When we meet again?"

She smiled faintly, unable to think of a response to his words—or to the certainty that their paths would cross. Allinde had just returned to her people and had far too many debts of loyalty to pay. Any new friend would only be another burden.

"But there is one phrase I may teach you now." Leohiston grinned, spoke quickly in dwarvish, and walked away to the stables. The elf maiden watched him leave, marveling at his ability to slip through the grounds of Imladris. A shadow-man indeed.

_Burden or not, I would like to see him again._

* * *

**Helpful Context Notes:**

_Avari _= Dark Elves who refused the summons to Valinor in the First Age. Least of all the elvish kindreds—would be considered "backwards" in some ways.

_Eldar_ = Elves who accepted the summons and began the great journey to Valinor.

Elves believe that the act of killing reduces someone's ability to heal another.

Sindar = the grey elves, not as powerful as the Noldor, but more powerful than any other elvish kindred in Middle Earth.

Battle of the Last Alliance (of Men and Elves) occurred at the close of the Second Age, and ended with Sauron's defeat.

_Westron_=Common Language of Men. _Entish_=Language of Ents. _Orkish_=Language of Orcs. _Khuzdul_=Language of Dwarves. _Telerin_=Language of Sea Elves.

War of Wrath was the final war against Morgoth (Sauron's "boss") at the end of the First Age.

_Palannur_ means "far/wide secrets". She is around 550 years old.

_Leohiston_ means "shadow man." He is around 4,700 years old.


	4. Ch 4: Song in the Forest

A hideous stench filled the stone hut.

Allinde spat a series of curses in multiple languages, tears leaking out of her eyes at the fumes. She wiped them away with the back of one hand, and with the other groped for the simmering pot that held the noxious mixture. A quick, watery glance confirmed what her nose already knew. This wasn't the recipe for enchanted sleep.

But toxic elixirs were often more useful anyway.

"Can't waste it," she coughed.

She grabbed a wooden funnel, poured a little of the mixture into a tiny glass vial, then grabbed the pot with cloth-wrapped hands and flung the whole mess out of the small window. It sizzled on a pile of leaves for a moment, then gradually began to dissipate into the dense forest canopy.

Allinde sighed, grateful for the marginally clearer air. At least she wouldn't have to fear for intruders. No one would dare come close to such a foul smell. _King Thranduil was wise when he insisted on the edge of the Greenwood. _

A sour look passed over the elf maiden's face. Yes, he was wise—for once. Allinde took a deep breath, trying to contain the grief and anger that rose within her heart, and that was certainly to blame for the nasty tincture. Nothing could return her parents to Middle Earth. Dwelling on the past would not change it; a useful piece of wisdom gleaned from her exile among mortals.

Besides, tonight she would be formally swearing her life into service of the king.

After a moment more of reflection, she walked inside the stone hut. She tossed a handful of sweet-smelling powder onto the fire embers, immediately clearing the room of much of the stench. Then, pulling out a small leather purse, Allinde filled it with a few select bottles, requested by the King Thranduil as part of her services, as well as a token of good will. Thank the Valar, they were simpler mixtures, less likely to be affected by her emotional state.

The pouch filled, she donned a brown cloak over her grey trousers and tunic, checked her weapons, and began the walk to Thranduil's Halls in Emyn Duir.

If Eru smiled upon her, she wouldn't meet anyone until she had bathed and changed into fresh clothing. Especially the Sindarin nobility. Long ago, Prince Legolas had tricked her into falling into a pond during a sparring session. She had yet to return the favor.

* * *

"Aiya Lomecano!" The grey horse shook its head back and forth, snorting irritably. Toron leaned forward and stroked its dark mane to calm it. "What it is? Come, we are nearly through Greenwood."

Lomecano stamped its feel lightly, continuing to shake its head and snort. The elf man frowned. His horse was a true steed, not easily frightened or swayed by anything. Only something significant could make it halt so suddenly, without warning.

He alighted from the skittish beast's back, withdrawing his sword. Watching for the faintest movement, listening for the slightest sound, smelling for the—what was that smell? His nose twitched against the odor. There were rumors that evil was stirring near Greenwood the Great's borders, and the stench certainly contained undertones of dark dominion. Magic.

It reminded him of the cloying scent in the clearing. When he had first encountered Palannur.

A figure walked towards them, still some lengths distant. The odor emanated from its cloaked form. Also similar to the clearing. Toron's grey eyes narrowed.

"What are the chances," he muttered.

With a word, the elf man motioned Lomecano to a thick cluster of bushes behind him. Then, after sheathing his blade, he quickly climbed the nearest tree and crouched against the large trunk at the corner of two branches.

A lovely voice, like waves washing upon the shore, wove through the forest. An old Falmarin sea ballad, one that Toron had not heard in a long time. But he knew the singer.

"Palannur," he whispered.

* * *

"_As the winds came blowing o'er," _Allinde sang. _"Higher the great bird Elwing soared."_

"_Soared she through the star-filled night," _a deep voice answered, resonant as though echoed through caverns. _"Flying by the Simaril's light."_

The elf maiden frowned and glanced up. A grey-eyed figure in a shadowy cloak stared down at her archly, continuing the song for a moment. She felt her frown fade into a curious smile.

"Leohiston! Why are you here? Or rather, up there?"

He smirked. "I sought refuge from a foul-smelling creature that marched through this wood in a most sinister manner. However, to my surprise, it transformed into a fair-voiced maiden."

Allinde gave a small, mock-bow. "Albeit one who still smells hideous. Trust me, I like it less than you. You interrupted me from my quest to end its cruel dominion."

She kept her voice light, hoping Leohiston wouldn't ask any more questions. Not that she had any intention of answering them. The elf maiden watched as he swiftly descended the tree limbs, leaping the last ten lengths to land easily on the ground. Still as shadowy as ever. Though she hardly expected him to alter in only five years.

"What brings you to Greenwood, Palannur? I thought you would have escaped the clutches of the elvish realms by now." He smiled knowingly. _And read me more clearly in our last meeting than I realized_, she thought. Though her behavior had hardly been subtle. Yet, Allinde was glad to surprise him with her answer. Smugness did not suit his handsome face.

"On the contrary," she said. "I am returning to Emyn Duir in order to bathe and prepare for tonight's court audience and feast."

Leohiston raised an eyebrow. "And what reason would a simple maiden of deep secrets have to be there?"

Allinde opened her mouth to answer, but the words caught in her throat. She fought to keep her expression casual and friendly, while inside her soul, the grief and anger ignited anew. Challenging her to back out of this pledge to the elven king. Mocking her with images of her father, dead near the Misty Mountains. All because a handful of wood-elves wanted to attend a party, and no one listened to the warnings of a young, mixed-blood maiden. _You must do this_. _There is no other way. You need this protection—and so do those around you._

She glanced at Leohiston.

"If you're really curious, you should come to the audience," she said. "It is to be outdoors tonight in one of the great beech-chambers. But now I must bid you leave. Good day, Leohiston."

Allinde walked away without a backwards glance. There was much to do if she was to be presentable for the court.

* * *

**Helpful Context Notes:**

Whatever elves create contains a part of their essence. Therefore, a negative emotional state would very likely result in an unpleasant creation.

Emyn Duir: the fortress of caves that contained Thranduil's Halls.

As of this time (around 950 Third Age), Mirkwood would have been called Greenwood the Great, for the Necromancer had not yet encroached on its borders.

Elves are known for their ability of enchantment. It is an innate gift from Eru, the high Creator God, though it can be misused. However, any sort of activity that desires to control or dominate the surrounding world would be defined separately as magic, and deemed as suspect and sometimes evil (such as the One Ring).

Falmarin=of the Falmari, the People of the Shore. An elven kindred that lived along the shores of Middle Earth. Cirdan was their Lord, and so Allinde would be counted among them as well, although her blood is mixed with Noldor (high elf) and Nandor (wood elf)


	5. Ch 5: Revelry and Revelations

Toron hadn't planned on attending the feast that night. There were many good reasons why he had been riding hard around the edge of Greenwood, with no intention of making contact with the wood-elves. Yet after Palannur had mentioned her attendance, he knew he would at least lurk in the shadows for the court audience, just to learn what part she would play in this event. From their first meeting, he had gathered that she was a wanderer, like him.

_And yet, there were her weapons. _Elegantly-made, with a certain care and beauty beyond what would be found in a typical elvish armory. There was also her horrible stench at their second meeting, which Toron was certain had something to do with the pouch of odd-smelling materials he'd found on her in the clearing.

The elf maiden clearly had secrets worth further investigation.

Now he watched the audience from the shadows of one of the great beech trees that encircled the outdoor hall. Above him hung silver lamps, adding to the light of the great fires set in stone-paved pits. Many elves were in attendance, their festive clothing reflecting the lively colors of summer. They sat on an assortment of carved wooden benches, or else broad tree stumps, hewed and smoothed for comfort. All faced King Thranduil, who sat enthroned in a chair of polished wood on a low wooden dais. He was clad in deep green robes, and a silver crown woven with green leaves rested on his golden hair.

"And now, we shall receive a new person into our service," he intoned, his voice ringing throughout the gathering. "A lady who is well-known by many in our realm, yet who has long been absent."

Palannur stood and walk across the grass toward King Thranduil, her steps slow and measured. She wore a dress of dark brown velvet, with golden embroidery in a pattern of leaves defining the wide neckline, narrow bodice, and the long, full sleeves. Her deep brown hair was braided around a golden circlet and fell in waves down her back. And unlike the dark, foul scent of their earlier meeting, the elf maiden's form radiated the true light of her Eldar spirit, far out-shining the many Silvan and Avari elves in the audience.

Toron inhaled sharply. Clearly no common wanderer then. He should have guessed as much from Lord Elrond's interest in her.

Upon reaching the dais of the king, the elven lady knelt and placed her right arm across her chest. The pose of allegiance.

His eyes narrowed and he unconsciously took a step forward. What was she doing?

"I am Allinde Palannur, daughter of Baranorn, lady of the House of Cirdan. I pledge my name and my life in the service of the King of this realm. I submit to the will and mercy of my liege, whenever I receive his command, so long as it does not interfere with my duty to my own house, or conflict with the desires of the leaders of other realms, to which I am also bound. At all other times I remain a free being, able to decide my own course. This I swear before all of you now, and in the sight of Eru Illuvatar, the great Creator."

King Thranduil's expression was grave, as were all of the elves in the audience, including Toron's. To speak any vow by the true name of Eru was to carve those words into unbreakable eternity. The elven king extended his carved staff towards her.

"On behalf of my kingdom and heirs, I accept your allegiance. Lady Palannur, rise as an honored member of this realm, with all the protection and duty that affords."

_And so a maiden chooses to bind herself chains. _Toron watched numbly as Palannur stood and faced King Thranduil, bowing her head in respect, and then turned to face the gathered elves. As one, they bowed their heads slightly.

"This audience is completed." A smiled lightened King Thranduil's countenance. "Let the revels commence!"

The court erupted in a chorus of loud conversation and merriment. Servants immediately appeared with tables and began laying out great platters of food and flagons of fragrant drink. The fires blazed higher, a few musicians began to play a bright tune, and some elves began to dance.

Toron felt none of their joy. While festivities were well in their place, Palannur—**Lady** Palannur—had just made a reckless oath that would dominate the rest of her immortal life. He knew too much of the fickleness and deceit of most elvish leadership—including King Thranduil—to trust their decisions. That the elf maiden apparently did lowered Toron's opinion of her considerably.

He turned away from the feast. There was nothing to celebrate.

* * *

_Smile. Nod politely. Laugh when appropriate. Keep your speech light and pleasant. _Allinde repressed a sigh as she walked through the crowd of lively wood-elves. The most difficult part was over. She had made her oath to the elven king. Her fate was now sealed and protection ensured. Everyone would be safe.

Now, there was only the evening's entertainment to endure. She enjoyed a merry occasion, but found it better to linger in a quiet corner, watching the proceedings with a friend and sometimes venturing to dance for a short period. The all-night revels of the wood-elves had bested her tolerance even before her self-imposed exile.

_Leohiston. Where is he?_ Allinde glanced around the outdoor hall, searching for the shadowy figure. Doubtless he would remain on the outskirts. Perhaps he had not come at all. No, she had seen him earlier, his grey eyes intent on her as she stood in front of the audience. Intent—and then displeasure had darkened his face.

Why would he be displeased? Not that it concerned her. She had only met him twice. There was no reason for the sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Good evening, Lady Palannur." She turned to face the speaker, an elf man with light brown hair falling to his shoulders and an open, friendly face with more than hint of mischief. He wore green robes, though a lighter green than the king, and was similarly crowned with leaves, though his circle was less elaborate. This time, Allinde found it easier to smile.

"Good evening, Prince Legolas," she said. "It's been a long time." She made a show of looking around. "Though still with no betrothed? And what is the problem? Are you still throwing maidens into the nearest pond? "

His green eyes lit with humor and he shrugged. "Only the ones who introduce themselves by trying to knock my legs out from under me—from behind!"

Allinde blinked and tilted her head to the side innocently. "Well, I'm certain that's only because they can't bear the sight of you from the front."

Their glares dissolved into laughter. Her first meeting with Legolas had been in a sparring match just after her coming of age—only she had neglected to inform the elf prince of the actual match before she struck him, and he in turn had responded by backing her into a pool of water. Neither of them had realized the other's identity until their later meeting at a feast. Only then did they understand that Allinde had in fact been privately considered as a potential spouse for Legolas or one of the other Sindarin nobles. By then, the damage was irreversible; they were friendly adversaries, and nothing more.

_And that will never change. _The last three centuries had not touched the prince's carefree demeanor at all. For her part, Allinde felt the weight of the years on her soul. Her time among mortals had taught her to mark the years as they did, each day rare, each month preceious, and a hundred years a good, long life.

She had live three lifetimes in mortal company, and returned to her kindred to find but a moment had passed. It was a concept too difficult to master, and impossible to share.

Involuntarily her eyes searched the edges of the feast-area again. For the shadowy figure with the calm expression and cool grey eyes that seemed to bear the burden of years with wry amusement. Who also kept company with mortals—the dwarves who he had identified as his people.

"Pardon me." She gave Legolas an apologetic smile. "But I must go. For a brief refreshment."

Allinde turned and walked quickly through the crowd, moving carefully around groups of merry elves. At last, she reached the spot where Leohiston had stood. Her keen eyes stared into the darkness of Greenwood. Finding the elven wanderer, who was skilled at slipping through shadows in daylight, would be impossible at this hour.

He would have to find her. And if Leohiston were truly gone, at least she would have some peace, alone in the still, quiet night.

Reaching up, she unhooked one of the swinging lanterns, and holding it in front of her, walked into the forest. As she stepped around logs and through underbrush, she began singing—the dwarvish drinking song that he laughed at during their conversation in Imladris.

"Your voice is still too fair for that song." The elf man's words seemed to come from nowhere—and everywhere.

Allinde turned around, trying to place his location within the shadows, and not trip over her skirt. Irritation flared within her. "Someone once said he would teach me another," she replied, choosing a dialect of the Haradrim. The sharp, quick tone changes were perfect for her current mood. "But it appears that won't happen tonight."

* * *

Toron watched her for a moment, her shining hazel eyes wide and searching, her pale face tight with frustration. "I found most of party unappealing," he said, answering her language in kind.

"Then why are you still here?"

It was a valid question, one that had bothered the elf man as he had slowly walked away after the audience. Listening to the silence carefully with every step, though he knew not why. What reason did he have to stay? Who was he waiting for?

Palannur's song was his answer—but his satisfaction at her presence brought a host of new questions that he didn't want to think about at present.

Instead, Toron stepped out of a cluster of trees to stand in front of Palannur. "Because one person was an exception," he said, watching her face relax as she finally saw him. "Though I still wonder why she would make such a spectacle, when last I knew she preferred hiding."

Palannur rolled her eyes and shrugged. "King Thranduil had planned an audience anyway. He has always has enjoyed ceremony. King Amroth and Lord Elrond were much less formal—" She stopped speaking and glanced at him, a hint of suspicion in her eyes. As if she felt tricked.

The elf man smiled grimly. He knew no enchantments that would set her at ease. Her loose tongue was her own matter. "So, you have made this vow to others?"

She sighed. "Yes, I have."

"Why?" His voice was quiet, with a certain edge.

Palannur was silent for a long moment. "Not that it's your concern," she began slowly. "But for protection."

Toron raised an eyebrow. She waited three centuries to seek protection through this oath, and then she bound herself to so many. "Protection from what?"

Her features were drawn in sober lines, and her eyes were filled with a strange melancholy—and revulsion, turned inward. Emotions he knew, from the eyes of other elves who were far older, their long pasts filled with deeds wonderful and terrible. And from looking inside himself, though he had since made peace with his actions.

Slowly, he reached out and gently rested a hand on her shoulder. A simple gesture of comfort, yet Palannur shifted uneasily beneath his touch and looked away from him for a moment. When she again faced him, her eyes were unreadable, except for a touch of defiance. "The Line of Cirdan has a long tradition of service to other houses," she said, taking a step to the side, away from his hand. "It is a privilege to continue that legacy. Besides, I did tailor that oath to allow me some freedom to go where I wish."

The elf maiden smiled slyly, and Toron felt his mouth curving, returning the expression, despite his misgivings about her recent choice.

"What of you, Leohiston? Why did you leave?" Her face lit up with some sudden realization. "Was it because of the dwarves?"

* * *

Leohiston looked at her with unshielded surprise. Allinde's smile widened. After all facing his questions, it felt good to ask a few of her own.

"What of the dwarves?" he asked.

She took a step towards him, feeling more confident every moment. "I may be of the Third Age, but that does not make me less wise in the lore of ancient times. I know of the feud over the Nauglamir between King Thingol and the dwarves of Nogrod. _Lord_ Thranduil was among the nobles of Doriath who supported the king's claim. Ever since, he and his family have been less friendly with Aule's children." Allinde tilted her head to the side. "And when we met in Imladris, you called the dwarves 'your people' and you also mentioned being present in the First Age, with the dwarves of Belegost. Am I correct in assuming you did not favor King Thingol's side in the quarrel?"

A strange mixture of admiration and bitterness clouded Leohiston's grey eyes. "I favored no one's side," he said ruefully. "The mind of King Thingol was as twisted by greed as the dwarf leaders. Such is the way of those in power, to turn towards their own interests. I thought that our kindred were untouched…" The elf man's voice turned cold. "I have since learned better, time and again."

Allinde nodded. "I would agree, in part."

He glanced at her incredulously. "And yet you have bound yourself to their service."

The elf maiden took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, considering her words. Unbidden, images of a _rustic hall flashed in her mind, a long oak table set with food—and drink. Words whispered in her ear: do what is necessary. Clear the path for wiser leadership. Silence, the dripping of a clear, tasteless fluid into wooden bowls and cups._

Allinde scowled and shoved the memories to the farthest corner of her mind. Yes, she had the words to speak now. "Better to serve those in power, and encourage them towards good, than to rule and fall prey to those same temptations."

She felt his gaze upon her once more, searching her for answers. He would find nothing. Allinde now had full mastery of her expression.

"Wise indeed," he said thoughtfully. Leohiston gave a dry chuckle. "Well, but there is still something I might teach you, maiden of deep secrets. Would you learn some more dwarvish?"

* * *

The maiden laughed suddenly, the sound bright and melodious in the still night. Toron watched as her serious face light up with a joy that he hadn't seen since they met, as if she was releasing all of the cares of her heart. "I would be delighted to," she said. "Only, I must return to the festivities for a short while. There are many I haven't seen, my relatives among them."

Her relatives? So she must have some of the Nandor in her blood as well. Nandor, and Noldor, and the Falmari of the Shore, if she was of Cirdan's house. It was no wonder her features were so difficult to discern.

An unusual maiden, indeed. One Toron would know more of, no matter if they disagreed. His meeting in Rhovanion could certainly wait.

"I remain here, at your service," he said with a mock-bow and a genuine smile. "Just return with music, Lady Palannur."

She responded with a slight curtsy and a roll of her eyes. "How else? Until then, Master of Shadows."

* * *

**Helpful Context Notes:**

Iluvatar: the sacred name of Eru, only named in the highest of oaths.

Silvan and Avari are considered least among the Eldar. The nobility of the wood-elves were all part or full-blood Sindar. Yes, for the most part, bloodlines and genetics really do play that much of a role in an elf's abilities, appearance, and personality.

Legolas: there is no proof of his hair and eye color in the text, so I chose to go with light brown hair and green eyes, just to shake things up a bit.

Nauglamir: super-shiny necklace of awesomeness topped off with a Silmaril, one of the loveliest gems of all creation. Thingol had the dwarves of Nogrod set the Silmaril in the Nauglamir, and then they demanded payment for their services—some say they wanted to keep the Nauglamir for themselves. In any case, things got ugly, and ended with the dwarves sacking Doriath, killing Thingol, and then being killed themselves by vengeful elves.

Aule: Vala who made the dwarves.

Nandor: another name for the wood-elves


	6. Ch 6: End of Market

"Can I get you anything else?"

Toron looked up into the barmaid's eyes, bright blue and curious as she stood over their table with a jug of ale. "Thanks, but I believe we're done here," he answered, speaking in her northern dialect.

The woman smiled coyly, tossing a few thick locks of blonde hair out of her freckled face. "Are you sure? Usually our ale has every man uncloaked and singing their guts out after a tankard." She glanced down at the four empty metal cups on the table. "Seems you two need a little more!"

The elf man glanced at his companion, who gave a slight shake of his head. A wise decision. The drink was not hideous, but not worth another round. These northern brewers were more intent on making strong drink than fine-tasting drink—not that the brown liquid was enough to even slightly affect them.

"Well, what'll it be then?" The barmaid shoes were heavy on the plank floor, and she set the ale jug on the table with a metal thunk. "Or maybe your minds are already addled then? I've heard you southern types out of Gondor can't hold your liquor. Maybe there's something else you'd like to hold. I work nights as well as days."

The woman's broad fingers played with the laces of her bodice, but before she go any further, another, sharper voice intervened, "No. You can leave now." The words were harsh, the language Westron, and even from within the depths of his black cloak, Amortio Durcu radiated the stern authority of his age and rank. He dropped a handful of coins on the table. "For the drinks."

The barmaid's nose wrinkled, her smile soured, and she grabbed at the metal pieces. "Suit yourself then."

His companion rose swiftly and stalked to the doorway. Toron moved to follow, then turned around and pressed a tiny pouch with a few more coins in the barmaid's hand. She was rude, but that was only to be expected from her station. "Your ale was fine," he said quietly. "Good day."

By the time he caught up with Amortio, his friend stood within the shadows of a nearby blacksmith shop. A wise decision, as the streets were thick with people. It was the last great market day in Okrend, and though on the outskirts of Rhovanion, the village was large enough to close the main thoroughfares to wagons and carts, and line them with peddlers hawking wares from all corners of Middle Earth.

"You didn't care for the ale?" Toron said, smirking. His friend grimaced. "Fit for children. And the woman fit for none."

The Sindarin elf laughed. "Well, then don't marry her. I am certain Arda will survive without another tale of misspent love between the Eldar and Men."

Amortio's severe, handsome features softened to wry humor. "Though I could teach her many better ways of brewing drink."

Toron shrugged. "I thought it fair enough for mortals. A form of flavored water."

The Noldor shook his head, but smiled, the matter clearly over. "Come, let us see this famous leather worker and horseman. I have need of a new saddle, if his quality is good and prices reasonable for a human's work."

They reentered the crowds of people mingling between the stands.

* * *

"It is too much," Allinde stated flatly in dwarvish.

The dwarf held up the silver cloak-chain again, letting the bright sunlight glitter along its coiled edges.

"One of the finest pieces I have ever made," he answered in a gravelly voice. "The amount I ask is already lowered because of your friendship with my people."

The scout shook her head slightly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. The chain had been made by the dwarf, it was true; crafted a hundred years ago when he was just learning the skill, no doubt. Allinde recognized the fine scratches marring the otherwise smooth surface. It was one of the reasons she had selected the piece, desiring to replace her broken chain without great expense. Unfortunately, the dwarf, Pim, had other ideas—including some odd ones around friendship!

"The price is still too much," she repeated, gesturing to the etches on the chain. "With these defects, I will not pay the amount you ask."

"Defects?" Pim bristled behind his beard. "I'll have you know those are entirely intentional; strong runes, in fact, to ward off evil."

Allinde raised her eyebrows in disbelief, and sighed inwardly. With one incautious phrase, the haggling had just been extended to an indefinite period.

As Pim began to ramble about the chain's long history of protecting its wearers against evil, she crossed her arms and let her eyes wander. The market was unusually crowded today, even considering it was the last of the season. It was all the better to observe, and to learn. Perhaps she might even make a new contact.

Her sharp gaze lighted upon a very tall man standing in front of a tackle stall. His back to her, and cloaked in black, but she could tell from his build that he was no farmer or craftsman. _Nor is he mortal. _Even from this distance, his bearing gave him away. Allinde didn't expect to see another elf here. It was worth further study.

She turned back Pim. "That price is still not acceptable." The elf maiden raised a hand before the dwarf could protest. "I am leaving now. I will try to find better stock elsewhere. Good day."

Allinde winced as she walked away from the stand. Her dwarvish was still limited, and Pim was of a different clan than she was used to, with an unfamiliar dialect. _At least I knew enough to maintain a conversation. _The fault was Leohiston's. Though he had stayed a few days in Greenwood, and she had occasioned to meet him again over the past fifty years, their language sessions always turned to other matters of discussion. Always light, never too personal, and yet…

_And yet I wish to see him again. _Indeed, she held faint hope that the cloaked elf was Leohiston, though in truth it was taller and broader of shoulder. It was no matter; she would learn his identity soon enough.

"Miss? Miss!" The elf maiden paused as she felt a hand tugging at the edge of her rough brown cloak. She pivoted and faced the assailant. A small boy, no more than seven years old, blinked up at her. A homespun tunic hung from his skinny chest, and his blue eyes were wide with worry.

A troublemaker, or a thief, if Allinde guessed rightly. She glanced at him sternly from within her hood.

"Yes, child?"

"It's my sister," he said, pointing a finger off into the distance. "We were in town together, just looking around and get a bit of food but when we went to pay the baker for a few buns, he looked at us real funny and then spat at the ground. Then he grabbed Hina's money, but wouldn't give us anything! And then he started shouting at us, like we were thieves or something! Now there's a bunch of men around her, and," he took a hiccuping breath, "she can't get away!"

Hina. The name did sound familiar. Allinde stared at the boy more closely, trying to discern any familiar trait. "Who are you?" No, that wouldn't help. Human children grew too quickly to memorize their changing faces. She quickly added, "who are your parents?"

The scruffy boy ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. "Ma and Da—I mean, Warrin and Brigetta. They're the town herbalists. But we don't live in town no more. I never met you, but Da said you were bound to be around, that you were coming by later tonight, so I just kept trying people. You're the first one to listen, so you gotta be Miss Cauniel, and we help you sometimes and you help us sometimes." He paused to take another breath. "And we need help now! Da had a problem with the baker, something about his son didn't heal right, but I think the baker isn't doing right, and I told Hina our Da said to stay away from that stand, but she likes the fresh currant rolls, and wouldn't listen!"

Warrin and Brigetta. The images of a plain-clothed man and wife flashed in her eyes, the man hunched over, as if he never learned to stand up properly, and his wife's dark blonde hair covered with a white kerchief. Their family was among her first contacts, generations ago. But she hadn't seen them in years, just after Brigetta had just given birth to a son. The little boy who stood before her now, rocking anxiously from one foot to the other.

"Miss Cauniel? You coming?"

The elf maiden sighed, then nodded. Her curiosity could wait. The boy's emotions were genuine, and it wouldn't be the first time the herbalists had been harassed. These northern villages were ever wary of their healers. She took his grubby hand in hers, more to keep track of him in the crowd than anything else. As she made contact with his skin, a brief image flashed in her mind. Brigetta, holding a small babe in her arms, a proud grin on her face and a name on her lips. "Lead the way...Forreg, isn't it? You have certainly changed."

* * *

**Helpful Context Notes:**

Rhovanion is that kind of area between the Lonely Mountain in the east and the Misty Mountains. There is no Rohan at this point, so sort of consider the people of Rhovanion as their northern forebears.

Arda: name of the entire planet, like "Earth"


	7. Ch 7: Powder in the Fire

_The horse paced the clearing, her chestnut tail flicking back and forth nervously. She sensed his presence, even concealed beneath a clouded night sky. Any moment, she would startle and run again—If he could only get a little closer… _

_A soft sound trickled through Dairrim's lips. Not a song, barely a chant, yet it pervaded the area, and began to calm the skittish creature. He began walking towards her, each step slow and careful, never losing eye contact. _

"_Be at peace." The words might have been whispered, or merely thought. In either case, the mare's behavior quieted, and she stood quite still, her ears tilted forward. Soon, he was close enough to extend his hand to her nose. The horse nuzzled it for a moment. Dairrim smiled faintly, and moved his hand to the animal's shoulder, stroking it firmly._

_Oddly enough, it felt supple and smooth, hairless—_

"Can I help you there?"

Toron blinked, and the quiet clearing vanished, replaced by a small, dank tent that smelled of leather and saddle soap. His hand was stroking a light endurance saddle of dark material. The quality was well enough, though not up to the standards of his childhood. The elf man shook his head to clear it of the bittersweet memories of an earlier time under another name. There were few places now that could evoke his distant past—a tack shop was one such location.

"No, thank you," he said. "I'm just passing the time. However, my friend—" Toron nodded towards Amortio, who near a wooden rack of saddles, "would appreciate your attention, I'm sure."

The Rhovanion salesman turned his stocky body to face the black cloaked figure. He folded his thick leather clad arms across his barrel chest as he glanced at the saddle the Noldor had picked up.

"You've a good eye," he said brusquely. "That's a quality saddle, the best in my stock, in fact. I'll take no less five hundred."

"I said a saddle, not a horse," Amortio replied as he examined the article in question. "I will pay you one hundred and fifty."

Toron smirked. This was where things always became interesting.

The salesman jerked his head, sending his golden braids flying. "Do you take me for a fool? That saddle was many months' work, time I could have spent in the fields, and I do have a family to feed. You insult me!"

Amortio's jaw was set. "One hundred and fifty is a generous offer, and you are not the only one selling saddles."

"Indeed!" The salesman snorted. "See if you'll get such craftsmanship from any other vendor! I dare you to ask their prices! They'd sell you a saddle blanket for no less than three hundred and that's the truth!"

The Noldor made no reply for a moment. Instead, he tested the girth buckles, the stirrup leather, and the sturdiness of the pommel. With an easy movement, he tossed the saddle up a bit and weighed it with a practiced hand. Toron had taught his friend much of good horse lore over their many years of travel. _Though he never mastered the calming techniques._

"It's on the heavy side. One hundred five and twenty."

The Rohan growled an oath. "You men of Gondor! You think your tainted blood of long-dead kings gives you lordship over us! Your high and mighty ways mean nothing to the honest folk who live by their own sweat and blood! Or perhaps you fancy yourself an Elf-lord!" He spat loudly, and would have continued, but the other dropped the saddle on the bench with such a sharp movement that he paused in surprise.

_Here is where things finish. _Toron silently wove his way through the tent to the entrance.

"I did not bless you with my patronage to have my patience tried," the tall man said quietly, but with a tone of steel.

"Perhaps so," the saddle maker rumbled, "But your low offer will give me little profit, which is my chief end. I told you the truth when I spoke of the other vendor's prices. You'll not find a better bargain than my stall, but perhaps your blessed patronage would be better off elsewhere."

With that, the Rhovanion man grunted and moved to bargain with another customer. In turn, when Amortio stepped out of the tent, Toron stood there in the shadows. "Well done. I'm certain that was the way to warm him to a reasonable offer."

The Noldor made a scoffing sound. "He is a fool. Your recommendations have failed this time, Toron. This was not a worthy shop."

Toron sighed. Wise though his friend may be, he still had the fiery temper of his forbears. "In truth, it is. While you were occupying the owner, I was able to find several saddles that would suit you." His smirk returned. "And you must admit, fool or no, he was right about you 'fancying yourself an elf lord.'"

Despite his irritation, Amortio smiled slightly. The fury that marked him as a descendant of Feanor abated to mere embers. "So what of these acceptable choices?"

The Sindarin elf opened his mouth to speak, then paused. A peculiar sensation trickled through his mind. It was distant, faint, yet unmistakably elvish in origin.

He glanced at Amortio. His friend cocked his head to the side, clearly sensing the same thing. "Someone is working enchantment," he muttered. "Though why an elf would bother here…"

_Palannur._ The name immediately sprung to Toron's mind, and with it, the memory of the strange elf lady, walking through the forest of Greenwood, singing sweetly though she smelled of death and darkness. Later on at the party, her voice singing the ridiculous words to the dwarvish drinking song, her tone asking if he had truly left or not. Yet those were only suspicions. She had certainly never manifested any such abilities in his presence.

"Toron?" Amortio looked at him curiously. "What are you humming?"

He shook his head to clear it, mind made up.

"There are two light leather saddles in the far back corner," he said quickly. "Worth no more than three hundred, and he should only charge you two. These northern men have less use for long-travel saddles—they find them uncomfortable. I'll return shortly."

With a nod, Toron entered the throng of market-goers.

* * *

A crowd had gathered near the bakery. In accordance with the fine, late autumn weather and auspicious occasion, there were a few tables and chairs scattered in a messy half-circle near the entrance of the one-story stone building. All of them were filled with customers and loiterers, their attention focused on the drama occurring at the doorway. A skinny girl of thirteen years was backed against the wall next to the doorway, her pale blue eyes wide with fear and defiance. A half-dozen townspeople surrounded her, their faces angry and suspicious. At their center was a well-fleshed man in a stained apron that marked him as the baker.

"Look at her now," he jeered, pointing a finger in the girl's tan face. "Shrinking down like a rat. She knows she's guilty—she knows what her accursed parents did to my son!"

The girl swallowed, and closed her eyes for a moment to muster courage. "All my Da did was help your son," she retorted. "It wasn't any fault of ours that he would only take his medicine in ale!" She took a shaky breath. "The blame's only on him for the rashes and things. As if he weren't ugly already–"

The baker lumbered closer to her, his wide face screwed up with fury.

"What's the rat say?" He raised a hand. "What does she say?" The girl ducked down, trying to hide as much of her body within her baggy, dull green dress.

Unbeknownst to all of the onlookers, a tall figure in a worn brown cloak was singing. In fact, Allinde had been singing the whole time, just below the hearing of human ears, from her position in the middle of the crowd. A soothing melody, with words so small and simple, they weren't worth remembering.

For this was a song of peace…and forgetting. Though the mortals couldn't hear it, the enchantment threaded through each note was designed only for their ears. And each note built onto the one before it, creating a overpowering persuasive force, pulling at the crowd's minds and clouding their memories.

She had already scattered a few grains of a pale, lavender-grey powder into the air, where they had dispersed into the wood-smoke that circulated from various cook and craft fires. The powder, like her music, was carefully crafted to only affect mortals. Now she guided the song into the smoke, encouraging each wisp to capture a single note.

The baker blinked, his gnarled expression growing dazed, as if distracted by some mote of sunlight. The others around him shifted on their feet, perplexed. Then their eyes too became glazed over, their faces draining of speculation and avarice. The teenage girl relaxed against the wall, her clenched fists releasing as her mind became blank.

Next to the elf maiden, Forreg's small body swayed gently back and forth as he too succumbed to the enchantment. Allinde smiled inwardly, even as her mouth continued to form song lyrics. It was finished. The mob was defused. She could cease her enchantment, cease the melody.

_Although, it's only a temporary measure. What does it matter if this foul man forgets today? Tomorrow he will find some new complaint against the herbalists. _The doubt whispered through her mind, suggesting a host of other ideas. Of twisting the song darker, until each person who threatened Hina and Forreg was locked inside their own mind for hours—or days. Of releasing another potion, that beguiled the minds of the entire crowd into obeying the healers, and patronizing them without reservation. Of a thick acid that would make the stone bakery crumble to dust, the hideous owner trapped within.

_They are yours, Allinde. _The thought was low, tainted with dark desires_. _For a moment, she could almost see a proud figure clad in crude leather and furs stalking through the crowd, a predatory gleam in his dark eyes, long hair whipping back in the wind. Challenging her mettle, as he had so many years ago, when they first met in the far East. Haunting her through her traitorous memories. _Do what you wish with them. They are only mortals. _

It would be so easy. Her hand drifted towards a small pocket inside her jerkin, towards her more sensitive creations. The ones that could make this whole situation end, and bring her enemies to their knees.

The predator seemed so close now. Despite knowing he wasn't truly there, Allinde could nearly feel his presence behind her, his lips at her ear. _Do you trust me?_

"No." The elf maiden shook her head and dug her fingernails into her palms. The brief, stinging pain helped her focus, banishing the figure from her memory—and his dark influence that still lingered within her spirit. _You gave your word to serve the high elves and protect others. There is no other path._ She exhaled, trying to clear her mind and anchor her spirit in the world around her.

"Who are you?" Allinde slowly looked down at Forreg, her mind still reeling from the internal struggle. The small boy's face was scrunched up, his eyes curious. "I'm not supposed to be with strangers." He stepped away from her, almost backing into a table. "Where's Hina? She was going to the bakery, even though I told her not to!"

She quickly worked at the problem. Forreg remembered the bakery, but not the conflict—so he, and the others in that area, had lost about a half hour. Good. She was afraid it might have been longer. Most men could overlook the details of that span of time, or blame the lapse on too much ale or excitement. The elf maiden smiled, feeling her muscles twinge with the little-used expression.

"I'm Cauniel," she said. "I've been a friend of your family for a very long time. You came to find me, because you needed my help to solve a problem. Now I'm going to take you and your sister home, and stay with your family for a time."

Forreg glanced at her uncertainly. Before he could speak, Hina shoved past him and rushed towards Allinde, grabbing her in a fierce hug. "Miss Cauniel! You're here! It's been so long. Where have you been?"

Allinde squeezed the girl tightly for a moment, then released her, though they still held hands. Hina's face was more defined than she remembered, her sandy braid longer, and after the custom of the Rhovanion, she had begun to wear a kerchief like the adult women.

"Getting into adventures. What else?" The elf maiden chuckled. "I forget to count the years as you do—remember?"

Hina nodded, releasing her grip and standing straighter. "I'm far older now than I was before. Does this mean you'll teach me more" her voice lowered to a whisper, "secret things? Special things?"

So, the girl remembered. Each time the eldest offspring of a mortal contact came of age, they were taught certain specific skills that would help them be good listeners and informants. In the case of Warrin's family, they were gatherers rather than spies, providing Allinde with many dried herbs and seeds. It was a worthwhile trade for the protection and help the elf maiden offered in return.

Allinde raised her eyebrows and put on a scowl. "We shall see." Then she let her face soften. "For now, go on to your parents! I'm sure your mother will feel the need to prepare."

Forreg nodded. Thanks to Hina's warm welcome, he looked more at ease with Allinde. "Oh, Ma will be madder than a stirred up snake if you come now! Da's been busy brewing new healing things, and there's a mess all over the place! Come on Hina—Ma's no fun when she's worrying—and that means no treats for dessert!"

She watched the siblings run ahead, then began following them at a more leisurely pace. Brigetta would want a certain amount of time to clean her home, and refuse the help of a guest. Even though Allinde had known the woman since she was a young girl lingering around the herbalist shop and giving Warrin coy glances as he learned his craft.

The elf shook her head. How quickly time passed for humans! No matter how long she kept their company, their swift years still amazed her.

Someone was close to her—too close. Allinde's eyes widened, and she tried to dodge, but her shoulder still brushed against a grey-cloaked figure walking in the other direction. Clumsy! She huffed in annoyance.

"Pardon me," the figure said, pausing briefly.

The elf maiden froze. Only two words, but she knew that deep voice all too well. So, Leohiston was at the market after all—though what could he have reason he had for being here?

One could always ask. Before she could doubt herself, Allinde reached out and seized his arm.

* * *

He was too late. The enchantment, which had grown stronger to his senses as he walked, had been woven in front of a bakery at the other side of the large market. Even with all of his arts of stealth and agility, whatever event had occurred was long finished by his arrival. Moreover, no one seemed to remember any incident to begin with.

The latter was a sign of enchantment in itself, but useless without more knowledge. Toron muttered a curse in dwarvish. His haste was a wasted effort, and his instincts were wrong—Palannur was not at the market.

No matter how he might have wished otherwise.

Suddenly, his arm was constrained in a firm hold. A voice spoke, low and raspy in the northern dialect. "Can I help you, good sir?"

Toron shook his head, grimacing at the stranger, clad in a dingy brown cloak, its hands tinged with soot and dirt. The persistence of these traders was enough to try even his patience.

"I do not wish to buy," he replied in the same dialect. He tried to pull his arm away, but the stranger's grip tightened. Their other hand reached up and tugged at their hood, revealing a pale face with strong, sharp features. Even through the concealing arts that dulled her hazel eyes and bright spirit, he recognized the elf maiden immediately.

"I didn't say I was selling."

Surprise and pleasure rushed through him. Toron knew not which was greatest, though after he regained speech, it was amazement that filled his voice.

"Well, Palannur, I must congratulate you. It has been many years since someone has caught me unawares."

She smiled faintly. "A matter of mud and unpleasant smells. Besides, you were distracted. Though by what, if I may know?"

_By you—or so I thought. _Toron studied the elf maiden closely as he spoke his next words. "I thought there was some disturbance around the bakery, so I went to check the area. However, I found nothing, except quite a few humans with strangely poor memories of the last few minutes."

Palannur's veiled eyes revealed nothing, her face carefully stoic, her mouth politely curved up. Yet he sensed the way her form tensed and her fingers twitched ever so slightly. "Sounds most curious, Leohiston. It presents quite a puzzle." She shrugged. "Though I'm sure all could be explained by the infamous ale they serve around here."

She chuckled. Toron smiled in spite of his unsatisfied curiosity. Or perhaps because of it. Palannur continued to surpass his expectations each time they met. And each time, he felt a deeper connection that transcended their differing ages and social statuses, and a desire to remain with the maiden, as powerful as the inner conviction that she was somehow important. Precious. He pushed the thoughts away for later consideration. "Well said. But now I must leave you, for I'm afraid my friend may have made an enemy of a leatherworker at the market.

She nodded knowingly. "Ah yes, the mysterious friend. Someone tall with a dark cloak, broad shoulders, regal bearing?"

* * *

Leohiston glanced at her quickly, then grinned. The expression lit up his angular face and Allinde felt her blood suddenly flow more quickly in her veins. "I suppose I should stop being surprised."

Her throat was oddly dry. Allinde swallowed, striving to keep her tone matter-of-fact. "I was trained to observe. It would be a sorry day if I failed to recognize another elf at a human market."

He nodded thoughtfully, fixing her with another steady gaze that served to calm and unnerve her at the same time. "What of your business here?"

An easier question. She smiled wryly. "Bartering." She fingered her cloak chain, which was held together with two leather ties as a temporary replacement for the broken clasps. "Although apparently I haven't learned enough dwarvish to convince a dwarf not to overcharge me."

Leohiston smirked. "Pim? I'd heard he was here. Rest assured that he would try to overcharge you even if you spoke fluently."

She eyed him reproachfully. "Well, I can only think of one person at fault for my limited knowledge."

"What can I say?" The elf man's smirk turned into a smile of genuine fondness. "You have –" He finished with a string of dwarvish, so quickly that she couldn't follow, except for the words 'stone' and 'thick.'

"Haruglek," she repeated. "You keep saying that to me. What does it mean?"

Leohiston laughed a little, then gave her a strangely intense look, as if trying to speak into her mind. She felt herself grow calm. It seemed to emanate from the elf man's absolute confidence, settling into her soul, stilling her anxieties.

Unbidden, an image of the dark predator flashed through her mind, pinning her with a similar stare, though even more compelling, more hypnotizing. Anger surged within her, breaking the spell.

_How dare you assume to know me!_ She took a step back, looking away. Then came a refrain of the words she spoke during her exile: _I will have no one as master save by choice, and none shall take advantage of me again. _No one could be exempt from this pledge, no matter how innocent their actions, how peaceful their demeanor, or how many languages they knew.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, allowing her tone to grow colder. "I have friends that await my arrival."

He nodded, and they both sank deeper into the cowls of their cloaks. "Farewell Palannur," he said. "Leave with music."

Her breath caught for a moment, and she glanced at him sharply. Leohiston's face revealed nothing other than general goodwill. "Likewise," she said.

* * *

Later that afternoon when Allinde returned to barter with Pim, she found that the dwarf had lowered his price to a single copper coin, far below what the elf had proposed to pay. When she asked about the sudden change, Pim insisted the chain was as good as useless, and it was better to be paid a pittance for it than nothing at all. And despite her strong suspicions, she could not make the dwarf admit that Leohiston had visited the stall.

* * *

**Helpful Context Notes:**

_Dairrim_ = "edge of the shadow veil" in Doriathin

_Feanor_ = great and controversial figure in elf history. He created the Silmarils, the most beautiful and powerful gems in existence. Then when Morgoth stole them, his seven sons swore an oath to recover them and bring down anyone who stood in their way. This resulted in a lot of bloodshed and exciting times that led to all of the house of Feanor, and much of the Noldor, being considered outcasts from the rest of the Eldar. As a descendant of Maglor, Amortio Durcu is an elf lord, and was also bound by those oaths.

Allinde is an alchemist, so she enhances her natural singing abilities with different created chemicals in various forms.


	8. Ch 8: Distance and Danger

_Hundreds of years later..._

Cardolan would fall. Allinde had never been one of foresight, but she had walked among the kingdom of Arnor for nearly a thousand years. Saw as the kingdom fell into pieces, hewn apart by the bickering of the royal Numenorean heirs.

Now, those kingdoms were being picked off, one by one, at the hand of the Witch-King of Angmar. The lesson was old as time and clear as the spires of ice that hung from the stone ruins of their encampment.

No matter how broken the ties, it was foolishness to abandon one's kindred.

"Allinde—behind you!" A sword poked her back, ready to strike. The elf maiden exhaled sharply. _Not so fast. _She dropped into a low crouch, ducking around the blade and shoving it aside with her long knife. One swift pivot, and then a leap to her feet. Her other hand whipped a slender rapier around, stopping only the barest breath from her opponent's neck.

"Much better," he said, smiling. "I was worried you had grown soft, only fighting humans."

She snorted. "Challenging me to spar without my usual tricks is one matter. But giving me advance warning of an attack? That's insulting."

Nimran shrugged, as well as he could in the light mail he wore. Never mind that he, Allinde, and a few other scouts were only there to observe in secret, hence their outpost just outside of Tyrn Gorthad, Cardolan's capital city. Attacks came soon and swift from Rhudaur to the north, now under the Witch-King's thrall. All of the elves must be at peak alertness.

Which was, in part, how this sparring match began.

"Is it?" His pale grey eyes gleamed with humor. "Then perhaps you shouldn't look down."

Allinde belatedly realized that, while she had been distracted by words, her sworn brother had swung his sword until it was pressed against her ribcage. Were she not also wearing chain mail, that is. The elf maiden blinked. How could she have been that foolish?

"Concede," she muttered.

He raised light blonde eyebrows. "Pardon? My sister, but your voice is so quiet."

The elf maiden rolled her eyes. "I concede. You've proven your point, brother. Don't belabor it." She sighed. "I am perhaps a little fatigued."

"Perhaps?" he said, tapping the sword against her mail vest with a clink.

Allinde wrinkled her nose. Irritation flickered within her, reminding her that she wasn't fully disarmed of her alchemical creations. One puff of powder, and she could reduce the other scout to sneezing. An inhalation of another, combined with a few song notes, and he would be paralyzed. But neither would be particularly kind, and besides, she was too tired to summon the energy.

Which also proved Nimran's point.

"Very well," she said. "I am exhausted, because I haven't slept in over two weeks. I'm not fit to assist in observing the Dunadain here, nor am I strong enough to report to Lord Elrond when that time comes. "

Her friend grinned triumphantly, removed his blade and sheathed it. Allinde did likewise with her own weapons, scowling. "Remind me why I swore blood loyalty to you?"

"Because you were struck by my incredible wisdom and maturity," he declared.

She shook her head, though a smile cracked her bleak expression. "Or because I was desperate and you were the first scout who didn't laugh at me."

The elf man did laugh then, and she gave a dry chuckle. It was partly true. Although she had been taught much knowledge in Mithlond, those lessons had not included weaponry or warfare. Most of the ancient elves didn't wish to linger on such subjects, nor share them with an innocent young elf. Allinde cared little about the restriction—until she decided to become a scout, and suddenly found all of her knowledge ill-equipped her for actually coping with the world outside the Grey Havens. Her father had his own duties in additional to training her, so she was an easy mark for teasing from the other scouts and warriors at various realms.

"You're remembering, aren't you?" Nimran's voice broke through her thoughts. "The first time we met?"

Allinde nodded, trying to focus on the present despite her exhaustion. "One of my happier memories," she said. "Although with a certain amount of pain."

They headed back towards the other scouts at the encampment. "Well, back then you insisted on sparring until you could beat me. I warned you it might take a while. Whereas now you are merely being stubborn."

He gave her a light shove in the shoulder, and her lips twitched, but failed to smile. "I know you mean well, but I can't rest. Not here. We are too close—" she looked anxiously to the north, where the Witch-king's forces glowered, "—there is too much darkness. I fear if I dream, I will only relive evil days, and be worse off."

Nimran grabbed her arm, staying her. His forehead was creased with concern. "Allinde, you're spent. I don't want to know what strange concoctions you've been taking to stay awake this long, but you can't dose yourself with them forever—"

"—Not forever," she protested. "Just a few more days!"

The elf man placed his other hand on her shoulder, his mouth set in a firm line. "Sister, no. If you need respite from the evil so near, then go into the Old Forest for a time. Find a safe place. Rest, even if for a few hours."

Allinde opened her mouth to speak further, but yawned instead. A curious feeling, but one she had become unfortunately familiar with over the last few days. Familiar with, and reasonably skilled at hiding. Acknowledging that level of weariness would only invite questions from the other scouts that she had no intention, or leeway, to answer.

She glared at her sworn brother, then felt the expression slip into wry resignation.

"Only a few hours," she said. "Find me if I tarry any longer."

Nimran nodded, then gave her a push. "Go! Lest you fall while among our kindred, and I'm forced to carry you back to Imladris. It would be cruel to put such excess weight on my horse."

Allinde's face flushed, embarrassed at the imagined future. "Such comforting words! Forget wisdom. I must have sworn loyalty because of your gentle and sympathetic spirit."

As she walked towards the Old Forest, she could still her brother's chuckles drifting on the cold breeze.

* * *

The Old Forest was trying to kill him.

Evil had crept into the forest ages before, and its recent waning thanks to the incursion of the northern kingdoms had made the ancient trees especially bitter. Yet usually their malice—and threatening tree limbs and treacherous pathways that led in circles—was reserved for men and dwarves. To elves passing through, the forest merely dropped a shower of half-rotten leaves or raised a couple of thick roots in annoyance.

Toron ducked as the branches of a large oak suddenly curved towards him. His horse Lomecano shifted instinctively to the right, avoiding the offending tree. A flock of dark shapes with sharp beaks and claws blew up from the left, cawing raucously as they tried to pluck at Lomecano's brown coat.

The elf man hunched beneath his cloak, using it to protect his left arm as he swung out his sword to block the crebain's attack. The huge birds fell back, but only for a moment.

"Faster," he called to Lomecano.

He remembered such evil before. It had hidden in dark corners of Middle Earth during Morgoth's rise in the First Age, and then in Sauron's dominions during the Second. His mouth tightened. Apparently the Witch-King of Angmar had grown more powerful than they had reckoned.

The flock of crebain swooped around for another attack. Toron concentrated on the gap in the trees, thirty lengths ahead. Amortio waited for him at the edge of the forest. He could sense the bright flame of his sworn brother's spirit.

"Slower now." The horse gave a soft whinny in protest, only decreasing its pace a little. The elf man stroked its chestnut mane and focused on the animal's mind, allowing his voice to grow soft. "Trust me, my friend."

As the beast reluctantly slowed to a trot, Toron reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a handful of small, pebbly-gray objects. He crushed the objects in his hand, activating the embers stored within each one, and flung them at the horde. Within seconds half the foul birds were smoking and sparking as tiny, acidic flames burned through their black feathers and skin.

He smirked. One of the many reasons to befriend dwarves. No other race was as skilled at keeping fire ready at hand.

Turning around, Toron felt Lomecano come to a sudden halt. The horse whickered nervously, flicking its ears back and forth. "What's wrong?"

He looked around the clearing, tucked just within the Old Forest's boundaries. At the far end were two figures, locked in a standoff, their weapons drawn. The taller one, clad in black traveling clothes and leather armor, was only too familiar. Amortio. The other was a maiden, clad in a murky brown tunic and leggings, a chain mail tabard flung haphazardly over her shoulders.

Toron paused, then glanced at the elf woman again. Yes, he knew her features-the brightness of her spirit fully exposed and not flickering in the slightest, though she challenged one of the High Elves of Valinor. Why should he be surprised? _Because I haven't seen her in centuries. _He made a soft scoffing sound. _Because she has been avoiding me for centuries. _She was subtle, but Toron had dodged the company of certain people for millenia himself. He knew when he was on someone else's list of undesirable company

What he didn't know was why he was on hers.

The two elves turned to face him. Judging from Palannur's expression, she was equally shocked to see him. Shocked and—dismayed?

"What are you doing here?" Her words were quick and came from four different languages. A sign she was upset. He had learned that much from the elusive maiden.

Toron dismounted and walked towards them. Neither lowered their blades.

"Arriving just in time, apparently." He looked back and forth between the two, then raised an eyebrow. "What have I missed?"

Amortio grimaced. "I was merely traveling from the south towards our meeting point, when—"

"When he disturbed a maiden who only wanted to be left alone." The Noldorin lord glared at Palannur sternly, his gaze filled with the fiery authority of many ages. Toron had seen such a gaze silence many a being. The elf maiden merely twitched her wrists, flexing her weapons. "I acted out of self-preservation."

"You acted out of reckless foolishness," Amortio retorted. "Mark my words, meeting you was not something I would have ever chosen to do."

_The loss is yours then_. The thought drifted through Toron's mind, and he immediately shoved it into the pile of strange convictions and feelings that Palannur evoked. One of which was a strong admiration for her fierce tenacity. "Ah, so you have been introduced then?"

The elf maiden shrugged. By now, both elves had gradually lowered their swords. "Lord Durcu, of the House of Feanor, cursed by his own vows, not especially amiable…I do walk among ancient elves. It wasn't very difficult to recognize an infamous kin-slayer."

"It takes one to know one, Lady Palannur." Amortio smiled unpleasantly, but there was a warning in his dark eyes. One that was meant only for her. "What of your other ancestry?"

Palannur shot him a glare that was equal parts anger, alarm, and a hint of…pleading? Toron narrowed his eyes. "Ancestry?"

The elf maiden stared at him. Toron caught a glimpse of a strange wildness and power. The brown in her eyes seemed to overtake the green and grey streaks, forming deep pits of grief. Loss. Loneliness. Far beyond what he ever expected.

The next moment, she shrugged and her expression shifted to an amused indifference. "Yes, Leohiston. Apparently your friend is wary of my devious Laiquendi heritage. After all, we are known for throwing some spectacular parties. Aren't we, Hathelion?"

Her eyes drifted to a point past his shoulder. Toron turned to see another elf man standing here, tall and clad in light chain mail, with mild grey eyes and a long-suffering smile.

"Among other things, Palannur," he said. "I assume from the wet hair that you're more rested?"

He glanced at her doubtfully, and a sheepish expression passed over the elf maiden's face. _From fury to sorrow to awkward silence. Wet hair? _Toron glanced at her again, and notice that her long brown hair hung in thick, damp tangles around her face and down her back.

"More so, yes," Palannur said, tying the locks back with a leather tie. "Although not as much as I would have liked."

She darted an accusing look at Amortio, then gave her disheveled appearance an annoyed brush-over. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be but a moment." She stalked over to a cluster of trees and disappeared within their trunks.

Toron raised his eyebrows at his sworn brother. "What happened?" he asked quietly, choosing Vanyarin. A language of Valinor that he knew Hathelion would not speak. "Where exactly was she resting?"

The Noldor shook his head. "A pool of water. Singing. Whatever other blood runs through her family line, she is certainly part sea-elf."

"Singing," Toron repeated incredulously. "Of course. What else." It seemed there was far more to this tale than either party was revealing. And judging from his sworn brother's expression, much of it would not be forthcoming. More was the pity. "What song?"

Amortio gave him a measured look, clearly not sharing his bemusement at the situation. However, before he could answer, the other elf known as Hathelion spoke up. "While we're waiting, I believe this would be a good time to introduce ourselves. I am Hathelion, a scout in service to King Amroth of Lorien." He paused, his expression friendly, but firm. "And now here is the part where you tell me why a couple of exiled wanderers are lurking around doomed human city."

Toron exchanged a glance with Amortio, silently confirming they'd received the same message. "We come as a favor of Lord Celeborn," he said. "He and Lady Galadriel also desire to know the fate of Tyrn Gorthad."

"It is falling," Hathelion said simply, though faint sadness clouded his level features. "The Numenoreans fight valiantly, but they are outnumbered. Cardolan will not survive the onslaught of the Witch-King. Not alone."

"None of the leaders are giving aid?" Though the words were a query, Amortio's tone was not. Both he and Toron knew the cautiousness of Third Age elves. No one wanted to pay the bloody price of interference.

"No," a female voice cut in. Palannur walked out of the glade of trees to join them, now entirely garbed in leather and light chain mail like Hathelion. Her cloak was still clasped with the dwarf-made cloak chain. Her lips were a sharp line. "For why should immortals waste their energy on the pain and cares of men? Better for the Eldar bide their time and immerse themselves in memories of former glory."

Toron had to smile in agreement. "Well said as usual Palannur, yet you are sworn to their service." She glared at him and his unspoken question, but remained silent. As if he were a threat. It was Amortio who spoke, "it must be a matter of some great danger…or perhaps you are just a young elf, saying large words with little meaning, reflecting only your bedtime stories."

Palannur's gaze flash to the Noldorin lord, and her lips twitched with barely-repressed anger. Clearly they had shared more than just barbs before Toron had interrupted. Irritation flickered through the elf man. He had known the strange elf maiden longer than his sworn brother, and yet Amortio had discerned one of her mysteries within their first meeting.

"Those stories inform me well, Lord Durcu. Including how all elves are bound to their oaths, no matter where that leads them." Her lip curled. "At least I chose my vows carefully."

The Noldor raised an eyebrow. "Though not your areas of study."

Palannur gasped softly, her eyes darting to Toron, as if afraid he would suddenly understand. The irritation grew within him. This secret must be grave indeed.

Suddenly a high-pitched bird call pierced through the night, undulating with urgency. The elf maiden's face paled and she glanced at Hathelion.

"As pleasant as this cryptic conversation is," he said dryly, "I believe that was a call from our comrades at the encampment-"

Before he finished speaking, Palannur ran out of the clearing. Toron pivoted just in time to see her easily leap onto a horse and gallop towards the half-ruined city, her form flowing effortlessly with the movement of the grey filly.

_Beautiful_. Another thought to push into the pile.

He ran after her.

* * *

**Helpful Context Notes:**

Cardolan: the Nothern Kingdom of Arnor was separated in three kingdoms after the heirs fought over their inheritance. Cardolan was one of the three kingdoms. Tyrn Gorthad is located it what later will become the haunted Barrowdowns.

Notable features within Cardolan were the Old Forest, the Barrow-downs, the South Downs, and the Greenway.

Witch-King of Angmar: a king corrupted by one of the Rings made by Sauron. Leader of the Nazgul and second-in-command to Sauron.

Valinor: realm of the Valar, from which the Noldor left in the First Age by way of a fierce and bloody kin-slaying of the Teleri (sea-elves). The host of Feanor lead this charge in their quest to recover Silmarils and kill anyone in their way.

Laiquendi: another word for green-elf, and yes, they are known for their parties

Vanyarin: language of the Vanyar, the Light Elves who never left Valinor. Few on Middle Earth would know their language, except for the Noldor.

High Elf: an elf who went to Valinor and was enriched by learning from the Valar.


	9. Ch 9: Meeting of Minds

For a sweet moment, all Allinde knew was the cold wind in her face and the smooth, powerful strides of the horse beneath her.

She was free. Free from the evil threatening Cardolan. Free from the demands of her position, the presence of well-meaning friends and intrusive strangers. Free from the oaths that bound her like a necessary noose around her neck.

Horse hooves pounded the ground behind her. Gaining on her.

Surprise and irritation flared through the elf maiden. The rider could only be Leohiston. His friend wouldn't care, and Nimran would know that the sharp bird call was only been a reconnaissance signal from the others at the encampment. There was no reason for her panicked escape. None but the presence of the two elven exiles.

Allinde muttered a few orcish curses at Lord Durcu. Trust a Noldor to sense her enchantments and stumble into her solitary swim. The fog she cast about the pool was meant to deter humans and foul creatures. She hadn't counted on ancient elves wandering in. And certainly not elves who knew of her dark lineage and alchemical gifts.

Leohiston's arrival was another matter entirely, an unsettling one that she had hoped would disappear. A foolish hope, but those were the only sort she cherished. That was well. Real dreams and hopes only tempted one to reach too high—and then fall. She'd fallen too many times already.

"Slow," she whispered. Thinnmith, her dappled grey filly, swiftly pulled to a halt, then snorted and stomped her foot. Allinde stroked her head. "I'm sorry. I know that was unexpected. You did very well."

"She doesn't understand why you're afraid." Leohiston's voice was deep and sure. His horse nickered to Thinnmith, a sound the filly returned in a friendly manner. "I wonder the same thing."

His grey eyes held hers for a moment. Curious. Trustworthy. She felt her heartbeat begin to calm, her muscles relax. Unbidden, a memory floated to the top of her mind. Suddenly, Leohiston's grey eyes shifted into a hypnotizing blue-grey, his features molding into a harsher, crueler visage. The Predator's voice hissed in her ear. _So strong, yet so vulnerable. Easily molded. I knew you were the one… _

"Palannur?" The memory dissipated, revealing only Leohiston, his angular features creased with concern. Yet he was dangerous. His presence was too comfortable, yet too bewildering. Allinde blinked and looked away. She couldn't afford to trust him.

"I'm not afraid. I was just responding to a distress call from one of the other scouts."

She alighted from Thinnmith and walked towards the encampment. It was nestled in a cleft between the demolished buildings. Two elves, both clad in chain mail and leather, crouched around a small fire held in a ring of cast-off stones. They looked up as Allinde walked towards them.

"Why the haste?" The words came from Filegiel, an elf maiden with brown eyes and a light brown braid of hair. "You only had to signal back."

Allinde did her best to feign concern. "Under the shadow of the Witch-King, we can take no chances."

The other elf looked up, his iron-gray eyes suspicious. "I agree, Lady Palannur. The question is, who is this person you have brought into our company?"

Though the words were a question, the elf man's tone was deadly certain and pointed at Leohiston, who only gave a weary smile. "Well met, Soronel. I see you still remember the past."

"Yes, I do. Very well." Ice was warmer than Soronel's voice. "That much bloodshed is difficult to cast aside. Some of us are not so quick to turn away from our own kindred. Nor to forgive other traitors."

Though the words were meant for Leohiston, Allinde felt the sting in her own heart. The pain was quickly matched by confusion. What could the indifferent Sindar possibly have done? Soronel did not anger easily. When she glanced at Leohiston's face, his eyes were hooded and grim.

"Ah, here comes the rest of the party." Shortly after Soronel's words, Nimran and Durcu dismounted from their horses and strode quickly over to the encampment.

Her sworn brother didn't look particularly amused by Allinde's swift departure. The elf maiden shrugged apologetically. Nimran did get the harder end of their relationship more often than not. For every misstep she had made according to common elvish customs, he made another wise choice that further ensured he would enjoy the long, full life of the Eldar.

Nimran's pale eyes met hers, and she knew he was following the drift of her thoughts. His response was all to easy too discern._ If my foolish sister doesn't kill herself through some strange, incomprehensible actions. _

_Just preparing you for the day you find your wife. _She smirked, making her meaning clear. _Although who knows when that will happen. Perhaps Arda will cease to exist first._

_I could say the same of you, fair sister_. Allinde winced-not because she was unused to their sparring, but for some other, warmer reason that she couldn't identify, but seemed to center disturbingly around Leohiston.

She turned away from Nimran, breaking off their connection, and focused on the current verbal conversation.

"But still, how do we truly know you come at Lord Celeborn's behest?" Soronel sneered. "You've yet to prove you can be trusted."

Durcu's regal face lighted with fury. "Aside from my own lineage, I have been pardoned. Or are the words of Gil-galad and the Vala themselves not enough for your young mind to appreciate?"

Soronel bristled at his words, one hand drifting towards the hilt of his sword. Filegiel looked back and forth between the two, her gentle countenance filled with worry and impatience. "Please, both of you, heed my words-"

"-I don't speak of you, Lord Durcu. King Gil-Galad pardoned whom he pleased. And you were following the curse of your own house, which is to be understood. But this other, who forsook his own people in favor of dwarves and kin-slayers-"

Toron's eyes turned cold and hard as stone. "Be at peace, Soronel. I am and I would not alter my actions even were it possible-"

At that moment, a piercing shriek echoed through the encampment, and down through the other ruined structures. The sound of a hundred crebain attacking. Instinctively, Allinde tensed, but a second later she glanced at Filegiel. The other elf maiden's lips twitched with satisfaction at the sudden silence. Bird calls had always been one of her gifts.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "As I was about to say, Soronel and I believe it's time to leave. Cardolan's fate is decided. We can only return to our lieges and advise them on the next course of action."

Allinde opened her mouth to protest, then closed it as Nimran nodded in agreement. She sighed. Filegiel's words were true. The Dunadain had no chance of recovering the city, even with the help of the elves. Their forces were better used aiding Arthedain, the only northern kingdom that so far was withstanding the Witch-king's assault.

"Are they all destined to fall then? Is this the way of all kingdoms? To fade so quickly..." She whispered the words quietly to herself in Adunaic, and with them a hundred images flashed through her mind. Of inns and shops and stable yards, and the faces of so many mortals she had befriended during the short centuries. Now, they were dead or dying, and she alone lived on with their memories.

Her voice was pitched low, yet Leohiston caught her eyes, as if he heard every word, and understood. Of course, if he had watched the rise and fall of the dwarves. Despite her misgivings, Allinde held his gaze in a strange moment of sharing, then looked away. Nimran was speaking.

"The passes to Imladris are dangerous," he said. "Soronel and I will ride to the south, skirting the edges of the Misty Mountains and then coming to Lorien."

"I'll go with you," Filegiel added. "Then continue onto Mirkwood to give word to King Thranduil."

They turned to Allinde. She had traveled from Imladris at Lord Elrond's bidding. A few weeks earlier, the dark forces were still grouping, and she had managed to slip through a little-known pathway to Cardolan. It would not be so easy to return.

But she was used to that.

"What of it?" She tossed her head, a little defiantly. "I can travel alone again. Surely you do not doubt my capabilities."

Nimran snorted. "No, just your wisdom." She glared at him, and opened her mouth to retort, but another cut in- "I will travel with her."

Silence fell as everyone look at Leohiston. His expression was as collected as his voice. "It has been long since I visited Imladris. I have my own ways of traveling stealthily." He looked directly at Allinde. "And Palannur has proven she is more than a proficient rider. I'm certain she can keep up."

The elf maiden raised her eyebrows, uncertain if she should be complimented or insulted. The faint, wry curve of Leohiston's mouth suggested the former.

"If Palannur agrees," Soronel put in. "After all, she would be forced to trust a kin-slaying, traitorous-"

"Yes," Allinde said, too quickly. Soronel's haranguing was twisting at her nerves. "I would be in good company. Now, if you will excuse me the task of breaking camp, the passage is dangerous, and I'd rather move onward right away."

Her words were spoken to all, but her eyes were fixed on Leohiston's handsome features. He nodded, his lips widening to a true smile. Allinde inhaled sharply to settle her suddenly jumpy stomach. After a quick, significant exchange of glances with Durcu, Leohiston led a swift pace away from the encampment.

Before, she wanted only to be free of him. Now, he led and she followed. Allinde only had an instant to wonder at this turn of events before she was lost to the rhythm of her galloping horse. Concentrating on breaking through the lines of evil creatures that separated them from Imladris.

* * *

Night, day, and night again. The sky always hazed with smoke and darkness. No words were spoken. Each of them knew that this wasn't pleasure ride. The only pauses were to rest the horses, and during those times, they took shifts as well. Though elves could rest their minds while awake, even that inattention was dangerous this close to evil. It was safer to have one always on guard.

Now it was his turn to keep watch, although Palannur rested for periods of time that were far too short, even for an elf—and once or twice, she drank from a small vial from one of the small pouches at her waist. He knew better than to ask what it was. The elf maiden seemed to take any personal questions as a threat.

Particularly from him.

Now he gazed at her, crouched beneath the thin shadows of the bare trees around them, her earth-colored hood drawn over her form. Toron felt a twinge of regret. He would have liked to look on Palannur's face without her usual suspicion locking away every bit of light and peace.

What had he done to be shut away from that spark? Such an odd maiden.

He smiled dryly. Truth be told, it made her all the more intriguing. And that strange mixture of feelings she aroused in him lead to only one possibility, though not one he was in a hurry to chase after. Particularly since he knew that in her current state, Palannur would never admit to any of her own emotions.

"Aiya, Haruglek," he said. Perhaps the _espesse_ had been too aptly given.

He looked away to survey the surroundings, when a strangled cry came from within the depths of the hood. Immediately Toron turned back to see the cowl fallen away, revealing her pale face, lined with sweat. Hazel eyes darted around wildly, one hand reaching towards a dagger at her waist.

"Palannur?" She had only been resting for ten minutes. "What is it?"

The elf maiden continued to search the grove of trees and hard-packed snow, muttering things under her breath too faintly for him to understand. He took a few steps toward her, keeping his movements calm and slow, his voice level. "Palannur?"

"Stay away—stay away—I never meant to-" the words grew steadily louder. "Please, just give me time! I can fix it—I can heal everything, I can't bring you back, but just let me try!"

By her last words, she was nearly shouting. Alarm arced through Toron. She wasn't awake—she was trapped in some dark memory. Elves rarely had nightmares; only those who had lived through horrible events were troubled by distorted visions of the past.

What had she endured?

He knelt next to her, focusing all of his soothing energies towards her battered spirit, as if she were an abused horse. Her obvious distress worried him—and he feared what would happen if she grew more panicked. They were still not near the safe boundaries of Imladris.

"Leave me!" Palannur was shouting now. "Just go—" He had barely enough time to cover her mouth with his hand before she started screaming.

"Shhh." He reached up and stroked back her rich brown hair, which had pulled loose from its braid and fallen around her lightly pointed ears. "Be at peace, Haruglek. Listen to my voice. Come out of this darkness."

For a brief moment, her eyes focused on him. Their colors were murky with grief and shame. Desperation. "There is no escape."

Her words were muffled, breath warm against his palm. Then Palannur placed a trembling hand on his own—and the elf man was bombarded with images.

_The clearing, where he had found her. Midnight, under a starless sky. The only light glowed from a table in the distance, where the elf maiden stood, frantically working with small objects that Toron couldn't discern._

_She was trapped. Surrounded by corpses, bleeding from infected gashes, or pallid and convulsing. They were piled up two and three fold, filling the air with putrid decay. Joining the smell was the sound of a hundred languages, some soft and keening, others harsh and firm. All clamoring for attention. For justice. For vengeance._

_Palannur jerked back and forth, her mouth open to answer—he could sense her screams, though she couldn't be heard over the din of her accusers._

_A figure emerged from the corpses, pushing through them to free his head, then his torso and arms. He had dark ragged hair and ashen features curled into a possessive snarl. Blood trickled down his bare back from a thick, ragged slice across his neck._

_The elf maiden shuddered, tried to back away—but the corpse reached for her ankle and began dragging her down into the piles of dead bodies._

He realized the figure was an elf. That more elf corpses were scattered throughout the sickening piles. Shock flowed through him. Amortio had spoken truly. Though Palannur had been born long after the great battles between the Eldar in the First Age, she was a kin-slayer. She bore the guilt and blame common to elves who had taken up arms against their own kind.

Guilt he had laid to rest long ago, before it could destroy him.

A muffled shriek. Reality slapped into sharp focus around the elf man. Frigid air, rocky ground, and Palannur, still locked within the throes of the hideous nightmare, her eyes rolled back into her head. Toron fought to keep his heartbeat steady. For all of his experience, he had little idea of how to draw the elf maiden back to consciousness.

A few twigs snapped in the distance. He inhaled the scent of men, stinking of sweat and evil. Fifty paces distant, and closing in. A second breath revealed another presence, one that made his muscles tense with the instinct to fight—or, given their current situation, flee.

"Orcs." His voice was the barest whisper.

Time had suddenly become a lot shorter. Toron looked at Palannur, who had lapsed into mutterings, tears streaking her face. He never thought to see the proud elf maiden in such a state. Somehow, this agony was almost worse than when he had first found her, near death in a deserted clearing.

"Oh Haruglek, what have you done?" Gently, he gathered her in his arms, speaking quiet words in dozens of different languages. "You're not alone. Listen to my voice. You can wake up. Elbereth be with you. You're stronger than this. I know you are. Aulë make you stronger. Listen to my voice. You need to wake up."

The enemies were coming closer. He held Palannur close as his mind raced, imagining a dozen possible scenarios of escape.

Suddenly, he felt a sigh against his chest.

"Leohiston? What happened—" her voice cut off as she too sensed the foul beings nearby. A dozen curses flew out of her lips. Toron smiled, relief gave him a brief respite from the tense situation. "Can we flee?"

He shook his head. "They're too near."

* * *

Leohiston's words, whispered in her ear, sent strange chills down her back. Due to fear, she told herself. Nothing more.

"The horses…" Allinde's voice trailed off, and she inhaled sharply, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. "The memories…sulfur. You smell like sulfur." She looked up, feeling her muddled mind clear for the first time since the nightmare. "You have flare-stones and spark powder."

He raised an eyebrow. "How did you—?"

She opened her mouth to speak, to share even a little of her true knowledge. But no words came. Allinde grimaced. Of course they wouldn't. More oaths, ones made it secret before her uncle, Lord Cirdan. Binding her soul against speaking of the gift she had inherited. And exploited.

"You are friends with dwarves," she finally managed. "I've heard they have certain tricks to aid in clearing out mines and mountainsides."

Leohiston's grey eyes stared into hers. "Very astute."

The elf maiden kept her features blank. His disbelief didn't matter at present. It couldn't change her vows—or their current situation.

"If we can't evade them, then we shouldn't try," she said. "Use the powder, create a distraction—"

"—and then die a swift death if there are more than five beings attacking," Leohiston finished dryly. "Spark-flare powder works best in confined spaces. Its effects won't be as lethal in this open area."

"Then we'll have to finish the rest on our own."

He level another curious look at her. "After what you just endured—"

Allinde smiled grimly. "If I can't eliminate memories, I suppose real enemies will have to suffice."

She only prayed that the smoke from the spark-flare powder would provide cover to ply her alchemical arts without exposure.

Leohiston had already seen more than she wanted.

* * *

**Helpful Context Notes**

**Elves & Telepathy: **a fairly controversial topic. Basically, telepathy is possible for any race in Arda. It isn't used very much, perhaps because speaking is just easier. Elves would have more aptitude than men, and more powerful elves would have even greater aptitude. It seems to work best when the two beings speaking make eye contact, are in close proximity, and are in close relationship. Even then, the two beings may not be communicating exact words. However, I have Nimran and Allinde exchanging words, or at least interpreting that communication into words, for the benefit of the reader.

The sharing of memory is also an extrapolation of elvish distress. I wouldn't say this is a superpower or anything. More that Allinde is in horrible distress and is not in control of her faculties. Moreover, it might be slightly obvious by now that she and Toron share deep connection-though whether or not that lasts is anyone's guess, as with the marring of Arda, more than one elf may desire another...

**"Haruglek" as an Espesse: **an espesse is essentially an elven nickname. As for what "Haruglek" means, you'll have to wait and see-but I welcome any guesses. Hint: it might not be elvish, and it might not be...traditionally flattering.

**Flare-stones and spark powder:** I made these up. But it is strongly conceivable that elves and dwarves would have a number of primitive concoctions.


End file.
